


Crave a Different Kind

by originally



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Dom/sub Undertones, Dragon Age Kink Meme, Established Enemies with Benefits, M/M, Roleplay, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-15
Updated: 2018-02-15
Packaged: 2019-03-05 19:51:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13395039
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/originally/pseuds/originally
Summary: Dorian wasn't averse to helping a man fulfil a fantasy. And, after all, he was handsome enough to be a prince.





	Crave a Different Kind

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote the majority of this 3(!) years ago for a [prompt](https://dragonage-kink.dreamwidth.org/87087.html?thread=350028847) on the kink meme: _Dorian/Blackwall, dom!Dorian, royal prince/stablehand roleplay. Would love Dorian fucking Blackwall into his makeshift bed in the barn, with Dorian referring to Blackwall as a farmboy or a stableboy._

“If I’d had to sit and listen to one more insult from your spoiled little princeling mouth—” Blackwall growled, between frantic, bruising kisses, pressing Dorian back against the coarse wooden wall.

“You do understand that I’m not, in point of fact, a prince?” Dorian gasped, his fingernails scrabbling at Blackwall’s arms. “Fantastically well-bred and dashing, obviously, but I’m not actually royalty, Blackwall.”

They were in Blackwall’s barn, riled after a night of sniping at each other over cards in the tavern until Varric had threatened Bianca and bodily harm on the both of them if they didn’t give it a sodding rest. As soon as they’d got through the door, they’d been on each other like desperate men, hands and mouths everywhere, fumbling up the stairs towards the monstrosity that Blackwall called a bed and at least the illusion of a modicum of privacy.

“Maker’s breath,” Blackwall said, hands fumbling with the laces of Dorian’s britches, “do you ever shut up?”

Dorian tangled his fingers in Blackwall’s wild hair and pulled, drawing a hiss from him. “I just wanted to clarify that for you. Since this appears to be something we’re going to be doing regularly, and you’ve called me that several times already.”

“I don’t care exactly which manner of pampered arsehole you are,” Blackwall said.

“Then why is it that you always aim for royalty? There are plenty of more accurate insults for the manner of pampered arsehole I am.” Dorian captured his mouth again, enjoying the rasp of beard against his skin. “I’m just wondering if fucking a prince is a particular fantasy of yours.”

“It’s not.”

Dorian smirked, and drew back to look Blackwall in the eye. “Are you sure about that? Perhaps I could be a princeling for you. I’ve slept with one or two in my time, I know how they behave,” he said, letting his voice drop into a low purr. “Would you like that?”

“Shut up,” Blackwall said again, though Dorian didn’t miss the way his breath caught and his hands faltered on Dorian’s laces.

Dorian allowed his smirk to blossom into a grin. If he’d found a weak spot, he intended to exploit it.

“I don’t think that’s any way to speak to royalty, do you?” he said, injecting haughtiness into his tone and drawing on his finest imitation of a Magister reprimanding his slaves. “How does this go? We’re in the stables, so does that make you my royal stablehand?”

“I’m not your anything,” Blackwall said, getting his hands into Dorian’s britches finally, but Dorian caught him by the wrists.

“Ah ah ah. Stableboys are not allowed to touch princelings without permission, I think. Not unless they want to lose a hand.”

He lurched forward suddenly and caught Blackwall on the back foot, using his momentum to drive Blackwall into the wall instead. Blackwall shifted in Dorian’s grip, but nowhere near as hard as Dorian knew he could; he was allowing himself to be manhandled, giving Dorian the upper hand. There was hatred in Blackwall’s eyes, but Dorian couldn’t be sure if it was hatred for Dorian or hatred for himself for responding to Dorian’s mocking play.

“I think stableboys who have done wrong should be punished, don’t you?” Dorian said, letting a few sparks of electricity jump at Blackwall’s wrists.

Blackwall yelped. “Fuck you.”

“No, I don’t think so. Not this time. A prince certainly wouldn’t sully himself by letting the likes of you penetrate him.” He moved his lips close to Blackwall’s ear. “Lowborn southern scum. I suppose a Fereldan royal might, since he’d be just as uncouth as you. Have you thought about that, Blackwall? Mounting King Alistair on his hands and knees like the dogs you are?”

Blackwall made a strangled sound.

“Now, a Nevarran princeling… he might deign to fuck you.” Dorian let Blackwall’s wrists drop and ran his hands down to cup his arse instead. Blackwall’s hips bucked against him. “I’m sure he would have plenty of servants who would drop to their knees for him. Are you going to go to your knees for me, stableboy?”

Blackwall gave a full-body shiver, but he looked at Dorian with scorn in his eyes. “No.”

Dorian hummed, and let his fingers dig into the flesh of Blackwall’s arse. “No? Is that how you respond to your betters?” He drew himself up to his full height and gave his most disdainful look. “You will obey me, or I’ll have you thrown in the dungeons. Now _kneel_.”

Blackwall knelt.

Dorian felt a thrill go up his spine and his cock surged. He hadn't expected Blackwall to actually do it, to kneel on the dirty barn floor in front of Dorian with his head bowed. This was power, something like the rush he felt when wielding fire or binding a spirit of the dead to his will. There had been a man, a fellow scion of a noble house back in Minrathous, who had liked to bind Dorian up in silken ropes and use him as he saw fit. It felt… different, on this side of things. He slid his fingers into Blackwall's hair again and dragged his head back until he was looking up at Dorian with an inscrutable, defiant expression.

“It’s a servant’s task to take care of his prince’s needs. Open your mouth.” Dorian took out his cock with his other hand and rubbed it against Blackwall’s tightly-closed lips. “I _said_ , open your mouth, stableboy,” he said forcefully, when Blackwall made no move. “And if you’re thinking about biting me, don’t forget about the potential for fireballs. _Open it_.”

Blackwall’s mouth dropped open and Dorian pushed the head of his cock past his lips into warm wetness. For all his show of reluctance, Blackwall was sure with his tongue, pressing it against the underside of Dorian’s cock and using his lips to draw back Dorian’s foreskin in a way that made him gasp and buck into Blackwall’s mouth. Blackwall’s heated gaze was fixed on Dorian’s as he sucked and Dorian found he couldn’t look away. He wondered, fleetingly, where such a man learned to suck cock as well as this, but the thought was lost in the haze of pleasure as Blackwall swallowed around him.

“ _Kaffas_ ,” Dorian hissed, fingers tightening in Blackwall’s hair. Blackwall grunted as Dorian pressed forward, forcing more of his cock into that slick mouth. “That’s it. Grooming horses and sucking cock, that’s what you’re good for.”

Blackwall gave a muffled moan and his hands came up to clutch at Dorian’s hips.

“Did I say you could touch me?” Dorian snapped, in his best imperious tone. Blackwall flinched and dropped his gaze, instantly submissive.

As much as Dorian loved it when Blackwall manhandled him, he looked good like this too, at Dorian’s mercy. There was something compelling about the sight of all Blackwall’s bulk folded in on itself, his mouth stretched around Dorian’s cock, his cheeks flushed pink under his beard. Dorian was almost tempted to finish this way; Blackwall’s mouth was hot and his tongue was skilled and it might improve that frightful beard to be painted with strings of seed. But he’d seen the way Blackwall’s eyes had darkened at the prospect of being fucked. He stepped back, his cock slipping from Blackwall’s mouth with a delightfully indecent pop.

“Enough,” he said, affecting indifference. “Prepare yourself. I’m going to fuck you.”

He watched, hungry-eyed, as Blackwall stripped off his leathers to reveal firm, well-muscled legs, covered in thick, dark hair but for a puckered scar that ran across one of his calves. Blackwall moved to kneel on his makeshift bed, surrounded by straw and sacking and musty furs and produced a vial of oil from under one of the hay bales—and wasn’t that interesting? Clearly he had begun to prepare for these little engagements. He dripped some of the oil onto his fingers and reached his hand behind himself, pressing two of his big fingers inside with a practiced ease. Dorian couldn’t stifle the little gasp he made at that, and Blackwall glanced over his shoulder with a smirk.

“You’ve been keeping secrets from me, stableboy,” Dorian remarked, trying not to let on how much it affected him to watch Blackwall’s fingers disappear into his body and pull out again, the way his hole stretched around them.

“You never asked,” Blackwall said, and added a sardonic, “Your Majesty.”

“Careful,” Dorian said, taking a step forward, magic crackling at his fingertips. “You should speak to me respectfully.”

Blackwall flinched again and bowed his head. “Yes,” he said.

“Yes what?”

“Yes… my prince.”

This time there was no trace of mockery in Blackwall’s voice. A wave of intense lust washed over Dorian and he suddenly found he could wait no longer. He grabbed Blackwall’s hand and roughly pulled the fingers out, making Blackwall hiss. His head was still bowed, though, and his arse presented to Dorian, gooseflesh quivering on his thigh where the oil had begun to drip down it. Dorian laid one hand on Blackwall’s hip and lined his cock up with the other, sheathing himself in one swift movement. Blackwall stifled a sound but didn’t complain.

The slick, enveloping heat was almost too much. Dorian closed his eyes and took a few heartbeats to compose himself. But he might as well see this thing through. “Yes,” he said roughly. “You’ll take what I give you like an obedient stableboy.”

Blackwall whimpered. Dorian pulled out, as slowly as he could bear, and then thrust crudely inside again. His movements forced Blackwall forward onto his horrible bed, face down into the fur and straw. He did it again, and then again.

“That’s right—fuck—” panted Dorian, “fuck, that’s right. Grovel in the dirt. Rub your—ah—your face in it. You already smell like an animal. Maybe you do more with the horses than just groom them, hmm?”

“No,” Blackwall gasped, “I don’t—I wouldn’t—only you—”

Dorian’s rhythm faltered, and he dug his fingers harder into the meat of Blackwall’s hips. “Only me,” he said. “Only your prince.”

“Yes—”

“You should be grateful for what your royal betters give you.”

“I am,” Blackwall practically wailed. “I am, I am.” He was thrashing under Dorian now, pushing back onto Dorian’s cock. “Please, my prince, Dorian, please—”

“Touch yourself, then. I’m not going to dirty my hands.”

Blackwall groaned, low and guttural, and spilled all over his furs without being touched at all. Dorian thrust raggedly once, twice more, until, afraid his knees might buckle, he braced himself on Blackwall’s broad back and let sensation overwhelm him, all contrivance and artifice swept away on a tide of dizzying pleasure.

When his breathing slowed and his heart stopped feeling as though it might beat out of his chest, Dorian pulled out and admired the look of his seed leaking between Blackwall’s thighs. “Well,” he said, then cleared his throat to try to disguise the way his voice rasped. “If this is what Nevarran princelings do all day, it’s a wonder anything gets done there at all. I shall consult with Cassandra.”

“Fuck off, Dorian,” Blackwall said, though the retort lacked heat. Release always seemed to mellow the man.

As Dorian straightened up, Blackwall let himself drop down onto the bed, gloriously naked and glowing with satisfaction and apparently heedless of the filth he was lying in. Dorian wrinkled his nose. Blackwall looked up at him laughed.

 “You might as well come down here. Now I know you’re not a real prince.”

Though the words were flippant, his cheeks were stained pink. Dorian, being quite Tevinter’s foremost expert in self-deprecating deflection, magnanimously elected to ignore it.

“Perish the thought,” he said instead, re-lacing his britches and adjusting his clothing. “I need at least three baths as it is.” He swept his eyes up Blackwall’s body and let a smirk tug at the corner of his lips in preparation for his exit line. “Maybe next time you can play the manservant. Or the bed slave.”

“Don’t think you’re going to trick me into wiping your arse, you pampered prick,” Blackwall called after him, and Dorian laughed all the way back up to the castle.


End file.
